


Something Like Home

by indieninja92



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Also canon adjacent, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Established Relationship, Feelings, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, I mean not like, M/M, Pillow Talk, Podfic Available, Sadness Adjacent, Scene: Flood in Mesopotamia 3004 BC (Good Omens), Unicorns, Where We're Going We Don't Need Plot, almost nothing but feelings, but its not their first time anyway, established established, many feelings, oh the tags have disintegrated again, sad-ish?, unbeta'd we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-14
Updated: 2020-09-14
Packaged: 2021-03-07 06:41:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26468860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indieninja92/pseuds/indieninja92
Summary: Aziraphale, seasick and ashamed, sits in his cabin in the Ark feeling sorry for himself. Then he gets a knock at the door and guess who it is, come to make him feel better!
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 90
Kudos: 298
Collections: Top Crowley Library





	Something Like Home

**Author's Note:**

> this is so self-indulgent, i'm beyond the point of being sorry.
> 
> this one is slightly to the left of my usual headcanon for these two goobers, but hey this is fanfic where the rules are made up and the canon doesn't matter B)
> 
> come and say hello [on tumblr](https://indieninja92.tumblr.com/)!
> 
> EDIT - now with a WONDERFUL podfic by the absolute superstar that is [Podfixx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Podfixx/pseuds/Podfixx)! See the link at the end of the story to listen and be amazed <3

_Mesopotamia, 3004 BC_

Aziraphale had to hand it to Her – God had a real knack for pathetic fallacy. Everything from the relentless battering of rain against the Ark's hull to the barely perceptible lurching of the water below seemed carefully calculated to reflect Aziraphale's mood.

He'd been feeling steadily worse ever since he'd climbed aboard, one of the last to embark. The rain had already begun and it felt as though each drop had been wearing away at him, grinding away at his belief that there was something good to be found in all of this. By now the storm had been in full swing for hours, and Aziraphale was exhausted.

He sat in his cabin, a tiny space just a few levels below the top deck, and wished he'd taken a berth closer to the centre of the enormous ship. It would be quieter there, he thought, or at least a different kind of loud – the noise of humans and animals packed into close quarters, sounds of fear and anger perhaps but above all sounds of life. Sounds of survival. Instead, all he had was the rain, a constant, driving reminder of the wholesale destruction being visited on the world outside.

He stomach twisted. The Ark was big, but not big enough that he couldn't feel it moving with the surging water. He buried his head in his hands, and told himself it was only seasickness. It would pass. The waters would rise, and then the rain would stop, and they would sail for... how long? And why? Why drag it out? Surely the damage had been done. Surely they were all already-

They would sail for a time. A few uneventful weeks, perhaps a month or two. He could walk among the people aboard, see if any of them had stories or songs he hadn't heard yet. And then the floodwaters would fall back, and they would find a dry bit of land and disembark and everything would go back to normal. There would be a rainbow – a promise. And nothing like this would ever, ever have to happen again.

Unbidden, the question rose in his mind of what might be revealed by the receding waters. He tried to push the thought away but it was too late. With a surge of nausea (and horror, and anger, and shame, and so much more) he buried his face in his hands and wished he was something, anything, other than what he was.

A noise came then from outside the cabin. Something distinct from the creak of wood or the keening of the wind. Aziraphale lifted his head and listened. The sound came again, louder now, more distinct – a shuffling sort of bang against his door, as if someone had accidentally knocked a broom against it as they swept outside. Or perhaps kicked it gently?

“Hello?” he called out, uncertain.

“Hey,” came a familiar voice. “Open up.”

Aziraphale frowned at the presumption in the demand, but stood all the same. When he pulled the door open, he found Crawley standing in the narrow hallway, a basket under one arm, a wineskin slung on a cord across his torso, and a carved stone cup of something hot and steaming in his hand.

“Take your time! You going to let me in or what?”

Aziraphale was too surprised not to. He stepped aside and Crawley pushed past him into the cabin, instantly filling the small space with chatter and movement, leaving Aziraphale to shut the door after him.

“Thought I'd bring you some things, get you settled in,” Crawley was saying cheerfully, casting about for somewhere to set down his burdens. “Ah, that's the ticket,” he said, spotting Aziraphale's small trunk at the foot of his bed. He put basket down and turned to hold the cup out to Aziraphale, still hovering by the door. “This is for you,” he said. “It's just peppermint, but it should help settle your stomach a bit.”

Steam rose from the cup in slow spirals, bringing with it the fresh, fragrant smell of mint. Aziraphale didn't take it.

“Crawley,” he said, but the rest of the sentence didn't come. He tried to gather himself. “Crawley, what are you doing?”

Crawley tipped his head to one side, wide eyes unblinking. “Dinner,” he said, as if it were obvious. Slowly, softness stole into his expression. “You haven't eaten.”

It wasn't a question. It would have been easier if it had been. Crawley continued, oblivious to the lump forming in Aziraphale's throat.

“And you're hopeless on boats at the best of times, which this most assuredly is not. The tea will help with the nausea, and then you can have something to eat. Besides... I thought you'd want company,” he finished with a sort of shrug.

“Oh.”

It was all Aziraphale could manage. To his mortification, he could feel his eyes starting to prick with tears. He tried to blink them away, but that only made it worse. He opened his mouth to say something, but Crawley interrupted.

“I'll get the food set up,” he said, pressing the cup of tea into Aziraphale's unresisting hands. His eyes met Aziraphale's, warm and sincere. “Drink. It'll settle you.”

Aziraphale nodded, too grateful to speak. Crawley turned away and started pulling the trunk out to use as a makeshift table in front of the bed, and Aziraphale took the moment of relative privacy to pull himself together – as he was sure Crawley had intended him to. He took a deep breath, shaky but growing steadier. A few tears fell without his meaning them to and he wiped them away on his sleeve, sniffing too loudly to be disguised in the small space. To his credit, Crawley did not look round. He did, however, reach his hand out behind his back, holding a linen handkerchief between his fingers.

Aziraphale laughed. Ridiculous creature. “Thank you,” he said, taking the hankie and blowing his nose.

Crawley looked over his shoulder, all innocence. “For what?”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes, drinking his tea to give himself an excuse for the warmth blossoming through his chest. Less than five minutes since Crawley arrived and he was already feeling better than he had since... Well. Since the last time they'd spent time together.

Before Aziraphale could pursue that thought any further, Crawley stepped aside to reveal his handiwork. The top of Aziraphale's trunk was scattered with food – bread and oil, soft cheese, fruits and olives, a bowl of pistachios, even a dish of fig syrup, rich and dark in the low light of the cabin. Without waiting to be asked, Crawley sat down on Aziraphale's bed and bounced a few times, making the ropes that held the wool-stuffed mattress creak in protest.

“Fancy!” he said approvingly. “It's just mats and blankets down below, how'd you blag yourself a proper bed?”

A blush rose in Aziraphale's cheeks. “It, uh... It may not have been included in the cabin's original furnishings,” he admitted, slightly sheepish.

Ignoring Crawley's laughter, he took a seat on the bed. He left a space between them, but Crawley immediately scooted over to fill it, crowding into Aziraphale's space. He didn't even seem to notice he'd done it. Not for the first time Aziraphale thought how strangely liquid the demon seemed at times – spilling over until he filled whatever space he was in.

The tea was lovely, unsweetened and just this side of too hot, exactly how he liked it. And it already seemed to be doing the trick – his stomach felt calmer. Then again, so did the rest of him. Over the lip of his cup, Aziraphale watched as Crawley picked at the food, pulling a chunk of cheese off the block and dipping it straight into the fig syrup before eating it with an appreciative hum. It was the hair, Aziraphale decided. Anyone with hair that big, that red, that _much_ would drag at the attention. It had grown wilder since the Garden, blown loose from its neat ringlets, and slightly more tousled every time they met. It suited him.

Aziraphale pushed the thought away, trying to concentrate on his tea – which of course only made him think about it more, and then he was thinking about how nice Crawley looked when he wore his hair pulled back, off his neck, and then he was thinking about the neck in question, how it stretched bare and pale into the opening of Crawley's tunic and how he could just make out the flush of chest hair, curled against the collarbone...

“Aren't you going to eat something?” said Crawley, interrupting Aziraphale's spiral in an act of mercy to put any angel to shame. “Have some bread if you're still feeling poorly.”

“I'm not,” said Aziraphale, very slightly breathless.

Crawley looked genuinely cheered by the news. “Good! In that case, fill your boots. Plenty to go round.”

Aziraphale eyed the spread doubtfully. “Is this... I mean. Is it quite appropriate?”

Crawley pulled a face, though that might have been a result of chewing around the stone in the olive he was eating. He swallowed carefully, worked his tongue and plucked the stone from his lips, setting it down neatly on the side of a dish.

“What do you mean, appropriate?”

“Well, I mean. Considering. You know.” Aziraphale gestured vaguely towards the outside world. “Oughtn't we be fasting or something? Seems a bit, um. Disrespectful.”

Crawley, who had been reaching for another olive, stopped what he was doing and looked long and hard at Aziraphale. It was unnerving, being subject to that unwavering, yellow gaze. Not unpleasant, though. Not entirely. His eyebrows were so much darker than his hair, thought Aziraphale. Dark and strong, and at that moment pulled together in a serious expression.

After what felt like a very long time indeed, Crawley said, “They're singing downstairs.”

Aziraphale wasn't sure what to say to that. “What about?”

“The rain. God. Love. The usual stuff.”

“Sad songs, I imagine.”

Crawley pulled a face. “Some. But some happy ones, too. Hopeful ones. And they're drinking, and all the kids are up past their bedtimes, and frankly I'd be very surprised if they weren't making a few little miracles of their own – bet you twenty silvers there's a brace of little Mayims knocking about in nine months time.”

Aziraphale didn't laugh. The cup in his hands was empty now, but he looked down at it anyway, as if the soggy leaves at the bottom might tell him something. He felt, rather than saw, Crawley soften beside him.

“People grieve in different ways, angel.” His voice was low and sincere, somehow reminiscent of the creak of the wood around them.

The lump was back in Aziraphale's throat. He stared at his cup. “What kind of an angel grieves an act of God?”

Crawley's shoulder was warm and solid where it pressed against Aziraphale's. He lifted his gaze, their eyes meeting in the dim light.

“The only one worth knowing.”

Tears came to Aziraphale's eyes again, and Crawley's arm slipped around his waist and pulled him close. Aziraphale closed his eyes, at once deeply comforted and ashamed of his comfort. Crawley squeezed, resting his head against Aziraphale's. With his free hand, he ripped off a piece of flatbread and dipped it in olive oil. He held it out to Aziraphale, his long fingers shining where the oil had touched them.

“Eat,” he insisted.

Aziraphale felt a small, faint spark of mischief light inside him. It always did when Crawley was around, something contagious in Crawley's knack for casual misbehaviour. He opened his mouth, one eyebrow lifted ever so slightly. Crawley seemed caught between smiling and rolling his eyes. He held the bread a little closer and, without looking away, Aziraphale leant forwards and ate it from his fingers, tongue darting out to catch a stray drip of olive oil.

“If you think I'm feeding you the whole thing,” Crawley said sternly, “you can whistle.”

Aziraphale laughed softly, letting the moment break. He finished his mouthful, and began to help himself to the spread. They ate in comfortable, companionable quiet, broken only by the creak of wood and the distant sound of thunder. Aziraphale felt better for the food, and better still for the wine. Most comforting of all, though, was the quiet certainty of Crawley's presence at his side, his arm wrapped around him, asking nothing of Aziraphale that he wouldn't gladly give.

The thing about guilt, thought Aziraphale as he ate, was that it never seemed to hit him when he expected it to. Look at the business with the sword – he'd felt any number of things after giving it away, second-guessing himself and worrying about the possible consequences. But he hadn't felt guilty about, not really, not even when he'd panicked and, in a mad, knee-jerk moment of unutterable stupidity, had lied to the Almighty about the sword's whereabouts. (Lied. _To the Almighty_. He still couldn't quite believe he'd survived the encounter. He'd had to have a little lie down afterwards, when the panic had receded and he'd had a moment to actually think about what he'd done.)

It wasn't until later that the guilt set in, creeping like water through stone, slowly wearing away at this fissure and that until the rock itself split open. It had been that way with Crawley too. After the Garden, they had run into each other a number of times and each time Aziraphale had tried to resist the urge to be warmed by the demon's company. And each time, he'd failed almost immediately.

He'd tried to tell himself that it was just because he was bored. Or, indulging in a little more honesty than usual, he admitted was a little lonely, too. But, in those very few and fragile moments when he allowed himself to look directly at his feelings, he knew it was none of that at all. Not really. The simple fact was, he liked Crawley, liked him immensely. He liked his sense of humour, his rudeness, his intelligence, how often he forgot his veneer of cynicism and let slip a sincere, artless enthusiasm for the world around him.

And as time went on, Aziraphale began to realise that the feeling was, against all likelihood, mutual. He would make a joke, and Crawley would laugh – really laugh, his head thrown back, his whole body participant in his joy. Or he'd tell Crawley about some idle thought he'd had, some whisp of an idea that had come to him, and Crawley would pick it up immediately and start turning it about, looking at it from every angle, asking questions that never would have occurred to Aziraphale. And then he'd bring it up again later, years later sometimes – as if he had nothing better to think about than what Aziraphale's opinion might be. It was dizzying, every time, to be the subject of that enthusiasm. To be appraised by those keen, yellow eyes, and found utterly worthwhile.

Crawley shifted on the bed beside him, his arm still heavy around Aziraphale's waist. Suddenly, the full weight of the day seemed to press down on Aziraphale, the patient push of grief finally wearing through his defences. He was so, so tired.

The last of his resistance left in a sad, slow slump, and he let himself fall fully into the embrace. If Crawley was surprised, he didn't show it. He just tightened his grip, his body strong and certain under Aziraphale's weight.

It had been easy, the first time. They'd been together all day, both in the same town on business that concluded before it had really begun, and more than happy to let the loose ends tie themselves while they swapped stories in the back room of the local taverna.

They'd argued on the walk to Aziraphale's place, Crawley's usual exuberant gestures only partly hampered by Aziraphale's hand in his. Their fingers were laced together and Aziraphale thought, briefly, of how they must look to someone watching. Two old men, drunk on cheap wine and each other's company, arguing about nothing for the simple joy of it. They'd look like friends, he thought. They'd look happy.

Aziraphale's house wasn't much – it was only temporary, after all, and he didn't have much need for creature comforts. He had some furniture left by the previous tenant, and he and Crawley sat together on the low couch drinking a little and talking a lot. Crawley held onto his hand all the while, and Aziraphale made no move to pull away.

It grew late. Eventually it came time for Crawley to leave, and with no good reason not to, he started to say his goodbyes. Aziraphale got up to show him out, and they shared a simple, smiling kiss – just two friends saying goodbye according to the local custom. And, still smiling, a second. And a third, the dry brush of their lips so soft it seemed barely to be real.

Aziraphale didn't know who laughed first. The whole thing seemed beautifully absurd – that they might kiss each other, there in the living room, as easy as breathing, as if there was nothing more to it than two friends, two bodies, two hearts. It was as if the sky had swapped places with the ocean and the sun had risen anyway.

Someone's tongue slipped against someone else's, the edges of themselves bleeding into one another like swirls of ink in water. They'd laughed, even as they fell into Aziraphale's bed in a tangle of legs and busy hands, bubbling over with the joy of it all. Crawley had been hot to the touch, lean and eager. He laughed when he came, all astonished delight, and Aziraphale had kissed the creases at the corners of his eyes and laughed with him.

The second time had been much the same. The third time had been in Egypt, and Crawley had been wearing so much gold, so much eyeliner, and so few clothes that frankly Aziraphale was inclined to plead diminished responsibility. It wasn't until the fifth or sixth time that his slow-footed guilt finally caught up with him.

It whispered into his ear, filling his head with shouldn'ts and mustn'ts and what would they say ifs. And as long as he was alone, he believed it. He would give himself a stern talking to, strengthen his resolve and hold fast to his resolutions with steely determination.

And then he'd bump into Crawley, bright and beautiful, brimming over with excitement, and the tension would bleed out of him like so much air. It was as if all the time he spent apart from Crawley he was submerged in water, and was only now lifting his head clear of the waves to breathe freely.

In the cabin, Crawley let his head fall to Aziraphale's shoulder with a soft bump. The movement startled Aziraphale, pulling him back to the present. Crawley smiled up at him.

"Penny for them?"

He looked lovely like this, softly lit, warm and comfortable. Aziraphale let his hand rest on Crawley's leg, fingers describing mindless shapes on the black fabric of his robe.

"I was thinking about you," he admitted.

Crawley's smile widened. "Is that so? What about me?"

"Wouldn't you like to know."

Crawley opened his mouth to say something, but before he could a thought struck him. His face fell and he let out a dismayed cry, sitting upright. "Oh! Oh, shit!"

"What?" said Aziraphale, mildly panicked. "What on earth's the matter?"

Crawley looked for all the world like someone who'd just realised they'd left the oven on at home. "I just..." He threw up his hands in frustration. "Oh, pissing shit!"

He seemed caught for a moment in an argument with himself, thoughts running across his face too quickly for Aziraphale to parse. Then his shoulders slumped and he let out a heavy sigh. He shot Aziraphale a wretched look, caught somewhere between embarrassment and resignation.

"Unicorns," he said miserably. “Bloody unicorns.”

"Ah."

Crawley sighed again. "I didn't... I didn't realise," he admitted. "Didn't think. I should have gone after it, I should have... Oh, _piss_."

Aziraphale patted him on the knee, not quite sure what to say. Crawley stared vacantly at the cabin wall in front of him, replaying the incident in his mind's eye. It clearly wasn't improving with repetition.

Slowly, an idea started to form. Aziraphale licked his lips.

"You've, um. You've never been to China, have you?"

"China?" Crawley repeated, frowning. "No, not yet. What's that got to do with anything?"

"Nothing. Only, well, if you've never been to China then you might not know."

Crawley was looking at him now, utterly confused. "Know what? What are you on about?"

"Unicorns," said Aziraphale. "They have them. In China."

Crawley looked dubious. "Do they, indeed."

Aziraphale nodded quickly. "Oh, yes. Oodles of them. Very healthy population. And of course," he went on, finding his feet, "there are the rainforest unicorns, over in South America. Slightly smaller than the ones we have here. And, um, dappled."

A smile was tugging at the corners of Crawley's mouth. He raised his eyebrows. "Dappled," he repeated, deadpan.

"For camouflage."

Crawley almost laughed, Aziraphale saw the flash of it cross his face. He went on, emboldened.

"The Arctic unicorns are quite a sight, too," he said, thinking quickly. "Shaggy fur, you know, more like a bison's, and split hooves so they don't sink in the snow."

"Are they small too?" said Crawley, and Aziraphale pulled a face.

"Good Lord, no! They're absolutely enormous!"

Crawley really did laugh at that.

"They are!" Aziraphale insisted. "Great, big, hairy buggers, almost as big as a moose. And then there's the African unicorn, on the savanna, they're lovely. Sort of sandy colour with these lovely red stripes."

"Sure they're not red with sandy stripes?"

"Don't be silly."

Crawley scoffed. "Right, yes, better not be silly about this," he said, but there was no bitterness in it. He looked at Aziraphale with such fondness that Aziraphale felt the heat of it flooding through his chest. "Can they have spiral horns? Like a goat?"

"No 'can' about it, my boy," said Aziraphale. "They absolutely do. They're quite magnificent."

With a hum of contentment, Crawley settled back to rest his head on Aziraphale's shoulder. His hand found Aziraphale's and he moved his long fingers over it, tapping on Aziraphale's knuckles in a gentle, mindless rhythm. The storm surged outside, seeming very far away.

"The thing to remember," said Aziraphale into the quiet, "is how terribly shy they are."

"Hm?"

"I just mean, they're very hard to see, in the wild." Crawley's hand fell still. He tilted his head, his yellow eyes meeting Aziraphale's. "It might be a long time before you see another one."

"Because they're shy."

Aziraphale nodded. "Exactly. But that doesn't mean they're not there. Even if you don't see another unicorn for years and years. Even if you never see another one. You mustn't worry. They're still there. Just out of sight."

For a long, long moment, Crawley said nothing. The look in his eyes was one Aziraphale knew well. He felt it too, the surging, sweeping warmth that billowed through him when he held Crawley in his arms. Then, with breathtaking ease, Crawley lifted his head and kissed him. It was sweet, almost innocent – a simple expression of emotion, spilling over past the place where words could carry them.

Crawley moved, pressing kisses to Aziraphale's cheeks and ears, deliberately dropping one to the soft swell of Aziraphale's double chin because it always made Aziraphale giggle. Then his mouth was against Aziraphale's neck, moving downwards in hot, unhurried steps. He stopped when he reached his collarbone, a slight shift in his breathing.

“Are you sniffing me?” Aziraphale asked, smiling.

“You smell good,” said Crawley, utterly unembarrassed. He buried his face in Aziraphale's neck and breathed him in. “You always smell good.”

He kissed the bare skin once more, then lifted his head to speak. But something caught his eye before he did.

“Is this a new tunic?” he said.

The sudden change in subject threw Aziraphale for a moment. He looked down at his tunic as if seeing it for the first time.

“I suppose? Relatively, I mean. Why?”

A smile spread over Crawley's face. He dragged his finger in a long line across the back of Aziraphale's neck. “You've got a farmer's tan,” he teased.

A blush rose in Aziraphale's cheeks. “I do not!”

“You do,” Crawley insisted. “I'm looking at it.”

“I've never worked on a farm.”

“You've never worked a day in your life, farm or otherwise. And yet, the tan remains.” Crawley considered, his fingers still moving slowly up and down the nape of Aziraphale's neck. “I suppose we can change the name. What's a word for 'shiftless, malingering angel who'd rather sit in the sun and eat figs than risk getting his pretty fingernails dirty'?”

Aziraphale, who had been reaching for a fig just as Crawley had spoken, shot him a haughty look. “A fainéant's tan,” he said, rather pleased with himself.

He tore the fig in half, depositing one half into Crawley's mouth before he could argue.

"Funny I never noticed it before," said Crawley as he chewed.

Aziraphale swallowed before answering, because he had manners. "Other things on your mind?"

Crawley wiggled his eyebrows. "I'll say. You got any others?"

"Other what?"

"Tan lines."

Aziraphale paused, hand halfway to reaching for another fig. He felt rather than saw Crawley's gaze travelling down his body, slow and significant. He licked his lips, brought his empty hand back to rest in his lap.

"I can't say I've noticed," he said, his voice strangely light, though the air between them had gone thick and syrupy.

The tips of Crawley's fingers trailed across the back of his neck once more, causing an answering flush of goosebumps. Aziraphale swallowed, barely suppressing a shiver.

Without speaking, Crawley pushed the makeshift table away, opening up the space before them. Before Aziraphale could protest, Crawley slid off the bed and knelt down before him.

"Let's see..." he said, his voice low and thoughtful as he ran his eyes up and down Aziraphale's body once more.

Aziraphale's breath quickened at the sight, but Crawley paid him no mind. Instead, he reached for Aziraphale's right hand, lifting it up to inspect it.

"Well, here's an obvious one," Crawley said.

His hands were soft in Aziraphale's as he gently tugged at the ring on Aziraphale's little finger. Sure enough, a band of paler skin lay below it. Crawley made a satisfied sound.

"There it is," he said, and kissed the narrow white strip once before pushing the ring back into place. "Now..."

He pretended to think for a second. Then he lifted Aziraphale's arm and gently pushed the white sleeve of his tunic up past the elbow. He turned the arm so the pale underside faced upwards, and smiled.

"Does this count?" he asked, looking up at Aziraphale.

Aziraphale opened his mouth to answer, but Crawley was already kissing his way from wrist to elbow. His lips were soft, with just the barest drag of stubble. When he reached the inside of Aziraphale's elbow, he lingered, letting his teeth scrape softly against the sensitive skin. Aziraphale let his eyes flutter close, just for a moment.

"Crawley," he breathed.

"Other side," said Crawley, as if Aziraphale hadn't spoken. He pulled Aziraphale's left arm towards him and rolling up the sleeve in slow, lazy movements.

It was no less affecting the second time. If anything, Aziraphale's sensation's were heightened, his awareness narrowing until all he could think of were the places where his body touched Crawley's.

When Crawley finally relinquished his arm, Aziraphale was well on his way to being thoroughly flustered. Crawley sat back on his haunches and considered.

"Where else, do you think?" he asked. "Oh, I know!"

He reached down and lifted Aziraphale's foot into his lap. Quick fingers made short work of his sandal straps and, sure enough, when the sandal fell away it revealed a pale echo of itself imprinted on Aziraphale's skin. Crawley dropped his mouth to the lines, and Aziraphale couldn't help laughing.

"That tickles!"

Crawley was unperturbed, set on his self-appointed task, dropping kisses up to the place where Aziraphale's sandal had left a ring of white around his ankle. He repeated the process on Aziraphale's other foot, making Aziraphale wriggle and laugh as his breath tickled against the delicate skin. Finally, he relinquished his hold on Aziraphale's ankles and let his feet drop to the floor.

Aziraphale's tunic was long, reaching almost to the floor even when he was sitting. Crawley's eyes found Aziraphale's and, without breaking eye contact, Crawley slowly started to reach up under the hem. His hands were soft, the tips of his fingers dragging over the swell of Aziraphale's calves. The tunic rose with them, caught against Crawley's forearms, and when it reached Aziraphale's knees, Crawley held it in place with one hand, the other moving up and down over Aziraphale's shins.

"Nothing here," he said mildly. "You should wear shorter tunics, get some sun on your legs."

Aziraphale would have answered, but he didn't feel quite able to speak at that moment. Once more, Crawley slipped his hands under the edge of Aziraphale's tunic. He was naked underneath, as was the custom – as Crawley had no doubt expected. A breathy sigh slipped out of Aziraphale's mouth as Crawley's hands moved, desperately slowly, in a smooth, unbroken line from his knee, along the length of his thigh to rest on the swell of his hips. Unthinkingly, he let his legs fall open, giving Crawley the space he needed to press closer.

When Crawley's pulled his hands back down, he hesitated, hands on the hem of Aziraphale's tunic. Aziraphale opened his eyes – when had he closed them? He couldn't tell. Crawley was beautiful in the half-dark, the flame of the oil lamp reflecting in his eyes. It took Aziraphale a moment to understand he was being asked a question.

"Yes," he said softly. "Yes. Of course, yes."

He lifted his hips, giving Crawley room to push his tunic up past his hips, over his stomach, and finally off entirely. Aziraphale shivered, though every part of him felt flushed. Crawley made an appreciative noise, drinking in the sight of Aziraphale naked before him. He had his hands on Aziraphale's hips once more, squeezing gently, enjoying the soft give of Aziraphale's body.

"Somebody's been sunbathing," he said, nodding to a faint line of white on Aziraphale's hip.

"Hm? Oh." Aziraphale smiled at the memory. "Loincloth," he said. "In Egypt. I seem to remember you didn't wear very much of anything while we were over there."

Crawley, who was diligently kissing the lines on Aziraphale's hips, smiled. "Not if I could help it," he agreed.

He moved, nuzzling his face against the swell of Aziraphale's stomach, letting the soft, white hair tickle his cheek. Then he peppered Aziraphale's belly with kisses, coming to rest in the shallow dip at the base of his sternum, pink-cheeked and happy.

"I don't believe those were all tan lines," Aziraphale admonished. He moved his hand through Crawley's hair, marvelling at its thick, wild loveliness.

"Nope," said Crawley happily. "I just like it. I like you. Every bit of you."

Aziraphale's breath caught in his throat. Trust Crawley to say something like that as if it were easy. Aziraphale felt himself start to tense, and Crawley, sensing his anxiety, took immediate and direct action. He pushed himself up and, with one hand on the back of Aziraphale's head, pulled Aziraphale into a deep kiss. The tender innocence of earlier was gone, replaced by something dark and hungry that made Aziraphale's stomach lurch deliciously. Crawley's hands seemed to be everywhere, running over the curves of Aziraphale's body, relishing the feel of him.

“You're beautiful,” Crawley was saying, mumbling between kisses. “You're beautiful, you're absolutely beautiful.”

The words made Aziraphale light-headed, giddy with the feeling of being so thoroughly, so unambiguously desired. This was it, he thought, this was why he could never listen to that creeping, guilty voice for long. The joy he found in Crawley's arms was just too loud, overwhelming the guilt and doubt with its own bright, simple truth.

He tried to pull at Crawley's tunic, forgetting the belt that cinched it tight around his waist. He tugged at it, grunting with frustration, not wanting to break the kiss.

“Keen,” laughed Crowley. He pulled back, eliciting an indignant noise from Aziraphale. “Oh, hush, I'm coming back.”

He got to his feet, toeing off his sandals and undoing his belt. Aziraphale lay back against the pillows, taking the opportunity to get himself comfortable.

“Hurry up,” he said.

“Why, do you have someone waiting?” Crawley shot back.

In a quick, fluid movement, he lifted his tunic over his head and let it fall to the floor of the cabin. Aziraphale couldn't help sighing. It didn't matter how often it happened – he didn't think he'd ever get used to seeing Crawley like this, naked and unabashed, the long, lean lines of him on display for Aziraphale to enjoy. He held out a hand and pulled Crawley into bed on top of him, spreading his legs to let Crawley settle between them.

They kissed again, slow and filthy, falling into an easy rhythm that sent successive waves of pleasure and arousal breaking through Aziraphale. His hips rocked mindlessly against Crawley's, seeking what small relief he could. He'd been hard ever since Crawley had knelt down before him, the heat building in his belly with every brush of their bodies. He was burning now, engulfed, as though Crawley was the spark that starts a forest fire.

“Crawley,” he panted. He didn't know what he wanted to say, just knew he was brimming over with feelings and had to get them out somehow. “You... You're...”

Crawley's chest was slick with sweat as he moved against Aziraphale, mouth hot against his throat. “What?” he smiled, sharp and suggestive. “What am I?”

He sank his teeth into the meat of Aziraphale's shoulder, making him buck and gasp. Aziraphale scrabbled for purchase, digging his fingers into the spare flesh of Crawley's hips.

“What am I?” Crawley asked again, almost a growl. “Tell me what I am, Aziraphale. I'll be anything you want. Anything you need.”

Through the haze of pleasure, Aziraphale managed to shake his head. He licked his lips, tried to speak.

“N-No,” he managed, and Crawley lifted his head immediately, concerned, hair falling in a red curtain on either side of his face. Aziraphale rushed to reassure him. “No, darling, I meant... I just meant...” He smiled, still catching his breath, and reached up to tuck a strand of Crawley's hair behind his ear. “I mean, I like you as you are. Just as you are.”

Crawley said nothing, looking down at Aziraphale with a complicated, thoughtful expression. “Then let me be as I am,” he whispered. At Aziraphale's questioning look, he continued, his voice almost lost in the sound of the storm outside. “Completely...” He pressed a kiss to Aziraphale's cheek. “Hopelessly...” Another kiss, landing on the side of Aziraphale's nose. “Head over heels-”

Aziraphale pushed their mouths together, cutting Crawley off before he could finish. For a split second, he worried Crawley would be offended. But then he felt the stretch of Crawley's lips as he smiled, returning the kiss as easily as ever, happy to let their actions speak for them.

Before long, Aziraphale's breath was coming in gasps. He pressed his face to Crawley's neck, trying to find the words.

“Please, I want... I want you to...”

“I've got you, sweetheart.” Crawley's voice was rough, as overcome as Aziraphale. “Whatever you want, Aziraphale. Tell me.”

Aziraphale swallowed, blinking sweat out of his eyes. He licked his lips and tasted Crawley's skin. “I want you,” he managed. “Inside me.”

Too his surprise, Crawley burst out laughing. Aziraphale blinked up at him, too sweaty and confused to be offended. Crawley looked down at him, hair sticking in strands to his forehead.

“Is that supposed to be less obscene than asking me to fuck you?” he grinned. He dropped his mouth to speak into Aziraphale's ear, his voice sultry and ridiculous. “You want me inside you, Aziraphale? Want to feel my big cock in your arse?”

Aziraphale swatted weakly at Crawley's back, laughing despite himself. “Stop that! You're such a beast!”

“Mm, you like it though, me and my big, beastly dick...”

Aziraphale was overcome with giggles, spurred on by the stream of increasingly absurd dirty talk Crawley was whispering into his ear in a horrendous, breathy pastiche of seduction. Crawley himself kept up a decent show, managing to keep an almost straight face right up until he crooned something about Aziraphale's “moistening fuck-hole,” and collapsed into hysterics.

“You have no sense of mood at all!” Aziraphale lamented.

“I do!” Crawley objected. He propped himself up on one elbow, tickling Aziraphale's tummy gently with the other hand. “But I like hearing you laugh. And I _love_ feeling you laugh,” he said, wriggling himself back on top and covering Aziraphale's body with his own. “Love it when you're underneath me, giggling away, your whole body shaking with it. Best feeling in the world.”

He scattered kisses over Aziraphale's chest and shoulders, their laughter slowly subsiding. After a while, Crawley slipped his hand between Aziraphale's legs and squeezed him gently, as if reminding him of what they were supposed to be doing here. Aziraphale arched into the touch, the last brushes of laughter still on his lips.

Crawley's hand moved over Aziraphale's cock with practised ease. The added pressure here, the twist of the wrist there – it was as if Crawley knew Aziraphale's body better than he knew it himself, leading him through his pleasure with a confidence quite as intoxicating as the action itself. Before long, Aziraphale's brain was little more than a happy puddle in his skull, and he thrust wordlessly into Crawley's fist in a desperate attempt to get the sensation he needed.

To Aziraphale's horror, Crawley chose that moment to pull his hand away altogether.

"Wha-?" Aziraphale tried to object, but his mouth wasn't working properly.

"Hush," Crawley said, kissing Aziraphale on the temple. "I'm here. I'm right here."

And then his fingers were pressing against Aziraphale's hole, miraculously wet, stroking him open. Aziraphale's head fell back against the pillow with a gentle cry. He felt Crawley shift, moving himself to bring his free hand up to Aziraphale's hair, running his fingers through the sweat-soaked curls.

"That's it, darling," Crawley said softly. "Let it all go. I've got you. I've got you."

Aziraphale drifted, lost in the delicious stretch of Crawley's fingers inside him, the meditative stroke of fingers through his hair. He lost all sense of urgency, all sense of time. There was nothing beyond Crawley's touch, Crawley's breath on his cheek, the warm, clean smell of Crawley's skin, the beat of Crawley's heart against his chest.

An unknowable amount of time passed. Then Crawley was slipping his fingers free, pushing Aziraphale's legs up to make room for him. Aziraphale's eyes fluttered open, and saw Crawley above him, lit in shades of gold, his long hair falling in a tumult around his shoulders. Crawley saw him looking, and smiled.

"Hello," he said softly. Aziraphale smiled back, not quite able to speak. "Are... Are you ready? I mean, would you like...?"

There was a flicker of uncertainty in Crawley's face, and Aziraphale was warmed to see it. Always so patient, he thought. He reached down between them and moved Crawley's cock into position, nudging gently against his hole. Then he brought his hand to Crawley's face, pulling him gently down for a kiss.

"Yes," he sighed, his voice barely more than a breath. "Yes, darling, please."

He felt Crawley relax at his words, and closed his eyes once more. Crawley kissed him again, and as he did he pushed himself forward.

The sensation was incredible, the feeling of fullness and heat as Aziraphale's body stretched to accommodate Crawley's cock. Aziraphale groaned, arching his back to try and push Crawley deeper. Crawley didn't need to be told twice. He moved his hips back and forth, working the slickness left by his fingers further down his cock with every movement. Soon he was fucking Aziraphale in earnest, slow, even thrusts that burned through the last of Aziraphale's sense of time and space. All he knew was the rise and fall of Crawley's body, broad shoulders, narrow hips, the soft ridges of his ribs beneath his skin.

"Aziraphale," Crawley gasped. "Aziraphale, I need..."

Aziraphale understood. He lifted his legs, wrapping them around Crawley's waist, letting Crawley slide impossibly deeper. The rhythm between them grew ragged, Crawley's hands moving desperately from Aziraphale's hips to his arse to the back of his thighs.

"Fuck, Aziraphale, oh, fuck-"

With a final, strangled cry, Crawley came, thrusting forwards one last time. Aziraphale held him tight, relishing the twitch of Crawley's cock inside him, the sensation of being utterly claimed. For a moment, they hung there together, suspended in time. Then Crawley let out a deep, satisfied sigh, and Aziraphale let his legs fall back onto the mattress. He lay there, enjoying the feeling of sweat drying on his skin, still drifting on the waves of his own pleasure. When he opened his eyes, he found Crawley watching him with quiet amusement.

"You look drunk," said Crawley.

"I feel drunk," Aziraphale admitted.

Crawley exhaled, not quite a laugh. Aziraphale was still hard, his cock resting fat and heavy against his belly, and Crawley wrapped his fingers around it, moving his hand up and down almost absent-mindedly. Aziraphale watched, strangely disconnected from the sight, though the pleasure he felt was real.

"I'd like to suck you," said Crawley, so matter of fact Aziraphale couldn't help but smile. He arched his back, pressing into the pillows and stretching luxuriously.

"If you must," he said, still smiling, and he didn't need to look to know the mix of fondness and exasperation on Crawley's face.

Crawley's mouth was hot and perfect, and as soon as it closed around Aziraphale's prick he knew he wasn't going to last long. He would have said as much to Crawley, but when he looked down to get his attention, the sight quite took his breath away.

Crawley had his eyes closed in concentration, his hair pulled back in a loose twist at the nape of his neck where it was already coming undone. His mouth was pink and lovely, with a flash of wet tongue as he licked the tip, chasing a fat bead of precum that had formed there. Aziraphale tangled his hand into Crawley's hair, neither pushing nor pulling but simply enjoying the sight of it in his fingers. Crawley opened his eyes at the touch, looking up at Aziraphale as his head bobbed up and down.

"I'm going to come," said Aziraphale, his voice deceptively even.

Crawley hummed his acknowledgement, and licked a thick, hot stripe from the base of Aziraphale's cock to its tip. Then he closed his mouth over Aziraphale once more and followed the squeeze of his fist down, pushing himself down until Aziraphale felt his cock slide into the back of Crawley's throat.

Aziraphale moaned, fighting the urge to thrust his hips upwards. He let go of Crawley's hair, grabbing onto the mattress with both hands. But Crawley apparently was in no mood for good manners. He took Aziraphale's hand in his and placed it firmly on the back of his own head, tightening his fingers to make Aziraphale grip his hair. Then he brought his own hands to Aziraphale's hips and pushed himself down on Aziraphale's cock once more, letting Aziraphale fuck his mouth with evident pleasure.

"Crawley, darling, I'm going to, I need to, please-"

Crawley picked up the pace, and then Aziraphale was coming, hot and hard. Crawley's hands were firm against his hips, pinning him to the mattress even as his body fought to thrust upwards. But Crawley's mouth was still on him, his elegant throat working as he swallowed Aziraphale's come with every sign of enjoyment. The sight made Aziraphale giddy, a final, extra dose of pleasure to carry him through the last shuddering throes of his orgasm.

He might have fallen asleep. He didn't think so, though. It seemed to him he'd simply drifted, too spent to feel anything more than a low, rumbling contentment. Crawley rested his head on Aziraphale's belly, a comfortable weight that rose and fell with Aziraphale's breath. Aziraphale moving his hand through Crawley's hair and was rewarded with a heavy, dog-happy sigh from Crawley. He always loved having his hair played with, especially in the afterglow of sex.

After a long time, Crawley shifted slightly, tilting his head back to look up at Aziraphale with a sleepy, happy smile.

“One day,” he said, his voice barely breaking the silence of the cabin, “I'm going to find a nice soft patch of grass, and I'm going to lie you down on it, strip you naked... And give you the weirdest fucking tan lines the world has ever seen. I am!” he insisted, his head bouncing as laughter shook Aziraphale's stomach. “I'm thinking, a hand on each thigh and the shape of my head on your crotch. To begin with.”

“Only to begin with?” said Aziraphale, still laughing.

“Mm. Might do something snakey later on. Spirals or something.”

“Oh, that sounds lovely. It would have to be an awfully private piece of grass,” he added after a moment's though. “If I'm going to be naked on it long enough to tan, I mean.”

Crawley considered. “It could be a garden,” he offered. “Nice big garden. Lots of flowers and shady trees.”

“Apple trees?” Aziraphale suggested.

The expression on Crawley's face was not quite joking. “If you like,” he said simply. “Or pears. You like pears. Whatever you like.”

Aziraphale didn't answer. The silence that followed was broken only by the sounds of the storm and the rustle of Aziraphale's fingers still moving in Crawley's hair. After a while, Aziraphale spoke.

“You don't have any tan lines,” he said, and for a split second he thought he saw a flash of something on Crawley's face – not quite disappointment, but something akin to it.

“I don't really tan,” said Crawley, letting his eyes close. “Just freckles, really.”

“I like them. Your freckles, I mean. I think they're beautiful.”

“Mm, I know. You told me.”

“Did I?”

A smile slipped onto Crawley's face. “You did,” he said. “All the way back in Nod, before we... You know. Any of this.” He twisted round again to give Aziraphale a smug look. “You were so nervous about spending the evening with me, you drank too much wine and ended up telling me I looked like I had the Milky Way on my nose.”

Aziraphale was mortified. “I didn't! Did I?”

“You absolutely did. Asked if it had happened when I was working up there, like I'd accidentally dipped my nose in the galaxy vats. Then you got all apologetic and embarrassed like you'd mentioned something scandalous.”

Aziraphale narrowed his eyes. “You're making that up,” he said, not at all certain. “I don't remember this at all.”

“Remember it or not,” said Crawley with a shrug, “it happened. It was very sweet,” he added, reassuringly.

Aziraphale was not entirely convinced. A wicked little gleam came into his smile. “I suppose it's only to be expected – your having freckles, I mean.”

Crawley frowned. “What? Why?”

“Well, you know. On account of you being a ginger.”

Crawley's face darkened. He surged up the bed, poking Aziraphale in the ribs and making him kick and squeal. “I am not a ginger!” he said, punctuating the words with more poking. Aziraphale tried to wriggle away, only to be met by the wall of the cabin.

“Alright, alright!” Aziraphale cried, breathless with laughter. “Pax!”

Begrudgingly, Crawley let go. He threw himself down on the pillows with a dramatic sigh and fixed Aziraphale with a look. “I'm not a ginger,” he repeated.

Aziraphale, still catching his breath, raised his eyebrows. “No?”

“No,” said Crawley firmly. “I'm a _redhead_.”

“Ah, of course. Quite different. I see now.”

Crawley made a grumpy noise and pouted, though he ruined the effect rather by scooting across the mattress for a cuddle. Aziraphale was happy to oblige, and they ended up with their heads next to one another, limbs arranged in a loose tangle under the blanket. Aziraphale stroked his hand over the wool, admiring the natural, creamy colour and the complicated pattern of the weave. After a time he became aware of Crawley watching him. Their eyes met, the expression on Crawley's face a mixture of affection and regret.

“You really aren't going to let me say it, are you?” he said.

Aziraphale's heart jumped slightly at the words. He licked his lips, turning his attention back to the safety of the blanket.

“You do say it.” His fingers traced the pattern woven into the blanket's border. “You show me all time.”

Crawley's fingers found his, a delicate, questioning touch. “Is that enough?”

“It's enough for me,” he said. Crawley didn't look up, staring blankly at their hands, twisted together. Aziraphale nudged him, shoulder to shoulder, making Crawley meet his eyes. “I know,” he said firmly. “I assure you, darling, I know very well. You've been very clear.”

The doubt did not quite leave Crawley's eyes. This close, Aziraphale could see the delicate lines on his forehead and around his eyes, the tightness of his mouth as he resisted the desire to chew his lip. “Are you sure?” he said quietly.

Aziraphale pulled him closer, nuzzling his face into the top of Crawley's head. “My dear boy,” he said. “Of course I'm sure. It's just...”

He trailed off, words failing him. His mouth opened and closed a few times, reaching for something that wasn't there. Crawley finally took pity on him.

“It's fine, angel,” he said briskly. “Don't worry about it.”

Before Aziraphale could speak, Crawley was moving away, ostensibly to give himself room to stretch and yawn. Aziraphale watched him, unconvinced by this show of nonchalance. When Crawley had settled down again, he shot Aziraphale a look.

“It's fine,” he said again. “Really. It's just words, isn't it. Doesn't make a difference, not really.”

Aziraphale didn't know if he agreed with him or not. He reached out, resting his hand on Crawley's belly. Even as he considered what to say next, a small, distant part of him marvelled at the addition of this small patch of softness on Crawley's otherwise skinny frame. He ran his thumb back and forth over the strip of red hair that trailed down from Crawley's naval and thought for a moment.

“It is different,” he said, almost to himself. “I think... I think if I didn't believe it made a difference, I wouldn't mind saying it. But the thing it makes a difference to isn't... It doesn't change how you feel.” Colour rose in his cheeks, he felt like a fool stumbling around in the dark but he was determined to carry on. “How we feel, I mean. Because you know, I- That is, of course, I...”

Crawley was there in an instant, kissing Aziraphale's forehead. “I know. Of course I know, you silly old goose.”

Relief broke like a wave through Aziraphale. He could feel his throat starting to tighten. “Good,” he said, his nose prickling. He sniffed, determined to keep a hold of himself. “Oh, Crawley, I'm sorry-”

Crawley interrupted him with a kiss that brooked no argument. When they broke apart, the moment had passed. Crawley rolled onto his back, hair spilling over the pillow on either side of his head. Aziraphale reached over him, grabbing a handful of pistachios from where they still sat on the lid of the trunk. He sat up, cross-legged, and deposited the pile of nuts onto Crawley's chest before getting to work snapping the first out of its shell. Crawley looked from Aziraphale to the nuts and back again.

“Do you mind?” he said mildly.

“Not at all,” said Aziraphale, dropping the now empty shell onto Crawley's stomach and reaching for another. “How long do you think we'll be here? On the boat, I mean.”

Crawley made a thoughtful noise, putting his hands behind his head, careful not to spill Aziraphale's snack. “Something symbolic, I expect. You know what She's like.” Aziraphale wasn't sure he did know, actually, but he didn't say so. Crawley went on. “If we're not out in three days, it'll be seven. If it's not seven, it'll be thirteen. And if we get past thirteen my bet's either...” He wrinkled his nose, thinking. “Mm. Twenty-six or forty. Can I have one?”

“You don't think it'll be the full forty, do you?” said Aziraphale, aghast. He snapped open a pistachio and dropped the little green nut into Crawley's waiting mouth. “That's almost two months. What on earth are we supposed to do for two months?”

“I can think of a few things.”

Aziraphale flicked a nutshell at his head. “Don't be crude.”

“Who's being crude? I meant, um. Knitting.”

“Knitting.”

“Yeah, we could knit. Ask Naamah and the girls to show us the basics. I'll make you a...” Crawley squinted at Aziraphale, considering. “A little hat?” he offered.

Aziraphale laughed. “A little hat,” he agreed. “With a bobble?”

“Obviously. Wouldn't be much of a hat without a bobble, now, would it?”

Aziraphale laughed again, and they fell into comfortable quiet, broken only by the soft crack of nutshells and the creak of wood.

“I'm glad you're feeling better,” said Crawley after a while.

“Mm. Much. Consider me thoroughly cheered up,” said Aziraphale happily, brushing some bits of pistachio out of his chest hair. “Last one?”

Crawley shook his head. “You have it. Then clear this off me and come to bed.”

“I'm in bed.”

“You're _on_ bed. Lie down, get some sleep.”

Aziraphale swept the empty nutshells off Crawley's chest and stomach and deposited them back on the top of the trunk with the rest of the leftovers. “I don't sleep,” he protested weakly, even as he let Crawley pull him down to lie beside him.

“Don't worry, it's easy once you know how.”

“I know _how_ to sleep, Crawley, I just-”

“Oh yeah? Prove it.”

Aziraphale pulled a face, but he knew better than to argue. The bed was slightly too narrow to fit them both comfortably, but Crawley didn't seem to mind. He snuggled closer, his naked body warm and soft against Aziraphale's, and Aziraphale decided he didn't mind the lack of space at all.

“I can hear you thinking,” said Crawley after a little while. “You can't sleep if you're thinking.”

“Sorry,” said Aziraphale. “I don't think I have the knack after all.”

“Lucky for you, you've got a great teacher. Step one, close your eyes.” Aziraphale did as he was told. “Step two, get comfortable.” A little wiggle, a silent argument over blanket distribution, and finally stillness. “Step three, think sleepy thoughts.”

“I thought you said no thinking.”

“No thoughts is preferable,” Crawley said, the didactic tone in his voice muffled where his face pressed into Aziraphale's chest, “but it's an advanced technique. For beginners, sleepy thoughts will suffice.”

“I see.” There was a pause. Then Aziraphale said, in the tone of one who doesn't mean to be a nuisance but isn't sure how to avoid it, “I don't think I actually know any sleepy thoughts.”

Crawley yawned, snuggling closer. “You just let your mind go where it wants, really,” he said, slightly slurred. “Like, I was thinking about water just now. About how much water there is in the world, and where it comes from. Where it all goes. Did all the water that's in the world right now used to be in the ocean? If it wasn't, how long will it take before all the water there is has been in the ocean at least once? What about water in cells and things, in trees and, I don't know, ants. Does that all turn into rain eventually?”

“I heard an idea once,” said Aziraphale. “It said God was to love as the ocean is to water.”

Crawley shook his head vehemently. “Nope. No. That's not a sleepy thought. That's much too big.”

“Bigger than all the water in the whole world?” said Aziraphale incredulously.

“Definitely. You need to keep it light.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

“It's alright. Rookie mistake. Don't want to be thinking things like that when you're trying to sleep, or you'll never drop off.”

Crawley shifted position, bringing his head level with Aziraphale's on the pillow. Contrary to his instructions, Aziraphale cracked an eyelid, sneaking a look at him. Crawley's face was soft and expressionless, chest barely moving as he breathed. A galaxy of freckles, thought Aziraphale. Well, if anyone was likely to have dipped his nose in a pot of universe while it was cooking, it was Crawley.

“Eyes shut,” said Crawley, without looking.

“Sorry,” said Aziraphale, chastened.

“Let's try again,” said Crawley. “Think sleepy.” He took a slow breath in, held it for a second, and let it out in a steady stream. “Water,” he said once more. “Symbolism. Fire and water. 's funny,” he said, mind finding a foothold at last. “If you asked people what kind of person water would be – if it was a person, I mean – if you asked people, I bet they'd say something like, oh, water would be someone calm and soothing. Healing. That kind of thing.”

“You disagree?” Aziraphale guessed. He moved his hand up and down the length of Crawley's arm where it lay across his chest. Crawley's chest started to rise and fall in time with the movement – in and out, up and down.

“I think water's more... Loosey goosey,” he said. “Go with the flow. Patient, too. Doesn't mind waiting. Wear down a mountain in the end.”

“Hmm. Are people wrong about fire, too?”

Crawley nodded. “Definitely. They think fire people are all big, shouty, angry. Temper tantrums. Misses the point a bit, I think.”

Aziraphale felt his own breathing starting to slow. He let his hand fall still, holding Crawley's arm in place against him. “What point?”

“Fire. Most of the time, it's nothing like that at all. It's... comfort. Warmth. Protection. It's hearths, and ovens, and campfires. I think a fire sort of person would be more like that.”

“Don't mix well though, do they? Fire and water,” said Aziraphale. He felt Crawley's shoulders twitch, not quite a shrug.

“I dunno. I think they could like each other, if they had the chance.” He smiled, nuzzling Aziraphale's head with his nose. “Maybe the water person could teach the fire person how to chill out a bit. Relax.”

“Loosey goosey,” said Aziraphale affectionately.

“Loosy goosey,” Crawley agreed.

“What about the fire person? What do they have for the water person?”

Crawley didn't answer. The sound of the rain was so far away now as to be almost inaudible. Aziraphale lay still, listening to Crawley's breathing, matching it with his own. He was just on the edge of sleep – it really was easy, once you knew how – when Crawley finally spoke, his voice barely more than a breath in Aziraphale's ear.

“Safe,” he said. “They give them... something safe. Something like home.”

Well, thought Aziraphale, staring at the ceiling while Crawley started to snore. So much for nice, light, sleepy thoughts.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Something Like Home](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26931763) by [Podfixx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Podfixx/pseuds/Podfixx)




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